broken sailor

Leonard sang of Him a broken sailor.
a sheppard in a foreign land long lost.

me a foreigner in my own iced soul.
always stomping on black soften thin ice.

wondering if He and me have thin soles.
and if we were Him would we get thorny crowns.

or would the thorns on our sides be our heads.
He stands there watching for eternity.

the state of my people eternal too?
for bread is not enough we need love too.

will You come to us on earthly matters.
at some point we’ve become judges all here.

the court of man is densely packed with noise.
Leonard sang of Him a broken sailor.

mbrazfield (c) 2022

as they stare

they treat me any kind of way
thirteen pounds of furry muscle
they demand as they stare at me
guilt me with otherworldly cuteness
i beg and i plead my very soul to keep
for a headbutt or a tail hug
to no avail
i rush into the kitchen room
they like sentries cold in their eyes of jewel
manipulate me to open their favorite chow
and place hers on the dinning table
he satisfied to be served on the counter tops

Bean and Phoebe 2022

Dzunuk’wa’s companion

she green gold black red
mighty swift so small is she
her wings sing out loud

few places i get to fly where nectar is  plenty at dawn beyond the fog at the foot of the hills trumpets of flowers are hard to find have flown a mile industrial towers are where my forest is buried reduced to beg to borrow instead from flowers not wild that came from soulless bottomless mills Dzunuk’wa’s ornate companion was i teacher of the happy psyche freedom lover wild as thunder yet gentle like spring rain on tender ferns the vines of my Creator sky have turned to hardened wires criss crossing dividing my stars my wings fearless beating like the heart that dies so that new hearts burst out in glee through out the meadow floors of our collective imagination

slurs of lunatics

mbrazfield (c) 2022

at night is when i like to see

all those things that mean to me

the most and yet are so simple

at night is when i like to feel

through those little childish trinkets

the force of the world’s throat

speaking to me

at night is when i like to think

that those ideas imparted through pictures

teach me to be me

at night i sense the echoes

that bounce from my own glass ceilings

suspended by wildflower buttons

and the slurs of lunatics

at night i taste the salt of tears

erupting from the memories

of how i came to be

the keeper of these silly little trappings